Ilsa could just make out the time on the abbey clock. “The variety show will be ending right ’bout now. He should be at the theatre.”
“Where?” said Cassia.
Ilsa gave her directions and the Sorcerer vanished again. Then Ilsa and Oren took off on wings into the freezing rain. In five minutes, they had made what was a half-hour journey on foot. Ilsa directed Oren to a secluded spot where they could land – in the alley alongside the theatre – and before they had shifted, Cassia was upon them.
“He’s not here,” she said. Panic leapt in Ilsa’s chest. “I asked for the magician and they said he never showed up. They’re giving people their money back.” She shifted her umbrella and glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, the crowds were exiting onto the street. “They said if I saw him, I should tell him not to bother coming back.”
Perhaps it wasn’t what she feared. Blume had forgotten his curtain call before, and Ilsa had always been there to run from pub to pub until she found him. But after what Mr Johnston had said, this was his last chance, gone.
Bill Blume wouldn’t work again. His gambling and drinking had burned too many bridges. Ilsa thought about the big house in the Witherward, on the corner of Regent’s Park. There’d be space for him. They couldn’t refuse to protect the only friend she had left.
“Follow me,” said Ilsa.
It was only two streets over, but the sleet was coming harder when they reached the street where Blume had a fourth-floor flat. Oren and Cassia were hesitant as they followed Ilsa inside, but everything appeared normal. The mewling of the landlady’s fussy cat was coming from the ground-floor flat, where Mrs Holmes had cared for her as a younger girl. The couple who lived below Blume were shrieking at each other as always. But on the top floor, just under the rafters, all was quiet.
Ilsa followed Oren and Cassia’s lead as they crept up on the door with soft, slow footsteps, listening as they went. When nothing presented itself, she became the girl whom Blume would recognise and reached for the knocker.
But then Cassia’s hand shot out and gripped her arm, and she put a bone-white finger to her lips. Sure enough, light, quick footsteps were sounding from inside the flat, heading away from the door. A second later came the shattering of glass.
Bill.
“Stand aside,” said Oren, and Cassia pulled her away from the door. The slender, ageing man reared up and kicked at the lock with more force than he looked capable of. The door burst open and Ilsa failed to stifle a sob. There was Bill: a gag tied around his sagging head, his arms fastened to a chair.
Oren made straight for the broken window and leaned out into the rain.
“They’re getting away over the roof,” he called, before shifting into a bird.
“Oren, wait—” said Cassia, but he had already disappeared in pursuit.
Ilsa was before her magician before she’d decided to move, his face in her hands. His eyes were open, but glazed. There was blood in his hair, on his clothes, and worst of all, on his lips. His skin felt cool – too cool. But it was a miserable night, and there was no fire. Ilsa was suddenly very cold too.
“Mr Blume? It’s me. It’s Ilsa.” She untied the gag. “Mr Blume? Please wake up.”
“Ilsa, I think…” began Cassia, but Ilsa wouldn’t listen. She untied him from the chair and he slumped into her arms.
“Help me get him on the couch,” she said. Heavens, there was more blood than she had thought. Maybe it was just the light, but it looked black where it had pooled on the floor around him. Black because it was old.
Cassia lifted his legs and they lowered him onto the couch.
“Why’d they do this to him?” Ilsa said, her voice cracking.
“To get you here,” said Cassia. “To get… exactly this.” She was distracted; her gaze swept the room. “If this was only one person, they must have expected you alone. I don’t think this was an Oracle.”
“Please wake up, Bill,” said Ilsa weakly. She put a hand to his mouth to check for breathing and was surprised to find she was trembling.
“Ilsa, we’re not safe here,” said Cassia. “The acolytes will be coming. They’ll know you’ve left Camden, and…”
There was a thud from below. Then another. Heavy feet were ascending the stairs.
“Stars help us.” Cassia positioned herself squarely in front of the open door. “Ilsa. Look at me.”
Ilsa dragged her eyes away from Bill. Cassia fixed her a fierce gaze. “Are you intimately acquainted with any predators?”
A sound of despair escaped her. Bill might be dead – was almost certainly dead – but their next threat was now on the floor below them and getting closer. She was going to be attacked again, and this time she needed to fight.
But how? All of her best transformations were for hiding or fleeing. She had tried some of the big animals she had seen at the zoo, but only for fun. She didn’t have the practice.
Ilsa shook her head, doubt clawing at her. “I ain’t sure I—” They both started as the footsteps burst into the corridor with a crash, and Ilsa realised: there was no time to let grief cloud her mind, no time to form a plan. A survival instinct that had failed her among the crates in the fish market took over as a familiar electrical charge coursed down her spine.
A dog had teeth and claws. That would have to do.
The form, the figure, the mass and motion of a wolfhound only flickered through her mind for a moment before her body took over. She dropped helplessly to her hands and knees as her bones moved and changed. Her skin prickled as a coat of shaggy fur erupted from it. Her joints twisted, her legs elongated, her hands and feet rounded into paws. Her mind dulled at the edges; her
